


Home

by AvaKelly



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucky's a Sap, Coincidences, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Pen Pals, Postcards, bucky has the hugs ready, everybody knows everybody, making out in the hallways in pajamas, self deprecating, steeb needs a hug, steve's a sap, they're saps together, writing letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 13:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8287369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: heyused to live in your apartmnt. I'm drunk in boston and it's the only adress I know. happy holidays.bbBased on this.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9627179) by [niammer69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niammer69/pseuds/niammer69)



> Hello everyone  
> So I managed to write a piece, even though it's not what I should've written (like the next chapter of Nameless, but hey, sometimes we need a break from all the angst). So here's a fluff piece and I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for reading. Feedback is precious (tho I did not beta this).  
> To [loonietuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/loonietuna): Hope you like it!

Steve bites his lip as he flips the postcard. His fingers are still stained green with the paint he used earlier and they leave a faint smudge on the edge of the off-white carton. One side of the card holds a black and white frame of a pub-like setting, people sharing drinks and smiling under spots of overhead lights that bounce off the exposed brick walls of the place.

It's just like any other pic of the microbreweries around Boston. Steve's seen plenty because he's the guy they call when they want a retro feel of their decor. His small business caters to owners trying to recreate the speakeasies of the '20s or the buoyant dance arenas of the '40s. Steve loves it. But this pub in particular, he doesn't recall. It's not one of his, and his mind immediately goes to devise ways of improving the space and the atmosphere.

He shakes his head with a smile to himself. No wonder Tony deems him hopeless. Steve's head is stuck so far in his work that no sun shines on--oh, no. Now his thoughts are talking to him in Tony's voice, so he drags his attention back to the card.

> _hey_
> 
> _used to live in your apartmnt. I'm drunk in boston and it's the only adress I know. happy holidays._
> 
> _bb_

Well. At least someone sent him well wishes, even if it's a complete stranger getting drunk the next city over in a brewery on the 4th. Of July. Right during Steve's birthday while everyone else has made plans and left Steve to fend for himself. Ah, he shouldn't be bitter. It's not like he ever tells anyone his birth date. No, he uses August 4th because he doesn't like the whole national day fuss. Sometimes he wonders if he just likes torturing himself like this. With a shrug, he pushes self-deprecating thoughts away. Tony's dating someone new, Steve doesn't know who, but Tony seems brighter later. Sleeps more. Keeps texting and smiling at his phone like a lunatic.

Sometimes Steve misses being in love. It's been too long. On the other hand, he's not keen on broken hearts, so he's not chasing after relationships. On the third hand, the most important one, it's not like anybody'd want him. Asthmatic and frail and weak and ready to fall over under the slightest gust of wind. Whatever.

He places the postcard on his shelf with pictures and mementos, leaning between two frames, one of his Ma and one of Tony and Rhodey and Sam with the biggest cake Steve ever got. On the 4th of August. Yeah, ok, his friends care about him. It's Steve who's screwed that up, and a decade later he doesn't have the heart to tell them.

~

> _Dear whoever-you-are,_
> 
> _If you didn't receive anything weird in the mail last week, stop right here and throw this away. But if you did (I'm pretty sure you did tho), just know that I'm Sorry about that drunken postcard. Capital S. You must've been creeped out. Anyway, to show my remorse, here's a view of the sunset (it was on my phone, can't remember when it was, but Brooklyn's home, always will be)._
> 
> _BB_

Steve's holding onto a photo printed on a low-res printer, on too thin carton. The writing on the back is small and neat, like this BB person took great care to fit all that in there, but the edges of the card are a little frayed already. There's a stamp smacked on the corner and a hurried post box number right beneath it, as if it's been written in a hurry.

The pic, though, it's better than any professional photo. Steve can recognize the Brooklyn skyline anywhere. It's a little shaky, a little out of focus, but that's just how Steve sees the world anyway, without his glasses on. The purples and pinks of the clouds over rooftops take him back to his childhood, before he moved away. He's been back for a long time now, right after college, but sometimes it still feels like he's missed the changes of the city. The picture in his hands now is his new favorite, and it earns a place next to the other card.

~

He debates with himself for three whole days before he decides to write back. Perhaps the box address is indeed BB's. Perhaps it's not, but Steve's sketched something for the first time in months and it's all BB's fault. Steve wants to share this piece of Brooklyn with them, especially since BB said they lived here. One never forgets Brooklyn. Ever.

So he stops by his usual printing place to make it into a custom card. He ends up having twenty cards made because the place has an order limit and Steve has his sketchbook with him. It's mostly old stuff, inks of the streets, the park, an icecream shop. One of them's a self-portrait and Steve grimaces at it, but it's one that the shopkeeper insists he should include in the set. Steve's known her for almost an year already, always nice and polite, so he lets her have her fun.

> _Dear BB,_
> 
> _I see your Brooklyn sunset and I raise you the view from my window. They renovated the building across the street two years ago, so there's more color. But I imagine you saw it enough times when living here. Also, the kitchen radiator is still busted, since before I moved in. Any tips on how to deal with the super?_
> 
> _S_

~

> _Hey S,_
> 
> _Wow your drawing's amazing. Are you an artist?_
> 
> _See behind the radiator a spot where the paint is faded. Knock on that with a wrench, should get it working. And what the hell, it was busted before I lived there. No chance with the super, tough luck. Did you find the secret hiding spot?_

~

Steve spends three weeks searching for the secret spot. No floorboards move, no walls sound hollow, no panels come off from anywhere.

In the meantime, they don't stop exchanging postcards. They have a nice rhythm going, twice a week. It's something Steve's looking forward to, even thought BB keeps being smug about the super secret hiding place. Steve suspects he's yanking Steve's chain. The jerk. But it's too fun to stop, too fun to be upset about it. The way BB writes is good natured and not once did Steve feel like BB's intent is malicious in any way. So he grabs a piece of carton, draws quickly a middle finger on one side and mocks up the back of a postcard on the other.

> _Jerk._

That's all he writes

~

> _You're such a punk. You're lucky you're funny and smart._

Steve hides his face the moment he reads it. But then he hides the card, too, because BB's just being nice and Steve shouldn't get attached just because of some easy banter.

~

> _Visiting another pub tonight. I swear I don't have a drinking problem. I'm a salesman so I gotta keep hopping through watering holes. But look at this place. I'd marry whoever designed this in a heartbeat. Imagine how beautiful the mind that can come up with this!_

Steve smiles for days at the new card, another brewery, one he designed himself. Tony teases him, Sam teases him, and Rhodey offers to track down whoever BB is. Steve politely declines. He doesn't want to ruin everything by making contact. If BB saw him, they'd probably turn tail and never contact Steve again.

~

Steve's hands shake. He knew this was too good to be true.

> _Hey S_
> 
> _Finally coming back to Brooklyn. Me and my friends are opening up a microbrewery there, so I won't be able to send these for a while. Would like to see you, though. Or chat. Or text. Ok, here goes, my number's at the bottom. If you want, you know._
> 
> _Then maybe we can meet. I wrote the address of the pub as return. No more generic PO box. Coming home._
> 
> _Hope to see you someday soon._
> 
> _Bucky_

Steve's heart skips a beat, then another, and his breath hitches. He scrambles for his inhaler. Damn. Looks like BB-- no, Bucky. Looks like Bucky wants to see Steve and talk more. But if Steve does that, it will all be over. He can't help it, though, he grabs his phone and sends a text.

> _Me: welcome home_
> 
> _Bucky: Thanks! :)_

~

That's how it starts and ends a swift death because Bucky never answers to Steve's 'good morning' the next day.

Tony wants to go there and kick the guy's ass. Sam and Rhodey hold him back and Tony's too putty in their hands. Huh. Steve needs a bit of thought to wrap his head around that one, but as long as his friends are happy, then he's happy as well.

Bucky, though... Steve downs his third glass of scotch and slides his glasses up his nose, blinking at the last custom postcard he has left of his set. The one with his ugly face on it, eyes too wide and hidden behind his thick rimmed glasses, mouth slightly hanging open, cheeks too gaunt, hair too untamed. Fuck Bucky. If he's never gonna speak to Steve again, then Steve might as well go out in style.

It really says a lot about how much of a lightweight he is that he gets drunk on three fingers of scotch and runs out in the middle of the night to drop the postcard in the nearest mailbox.

~

The morning is riddled with double nausea. He can't even blame Tony for this one stupid binge.

"Why don't you just go there?" Tony asks between bites of his breakfast.

Steve shakes his head and immediately regrets it, so he rubs at his forehead before forcing more eggs in his mouth. They're greasy and need twice the toast to go down, but Steve pushes himself.

"I mean to intercept the postman," Tony adds and Rhodey elbows him.

"Tony," he warns. "Stop giving him advice."

"What," Tony mutters, "my advice is good advice."

"I'll rat you out to Sam," Rhodey threatens.

"Don't you dare."

Steve smiles at them. Ugh. His head is killing him and his heart is broken yet again, even though he's been working hard for the past five years to avoid exactly this. It's pretty obvious, Steve's not meant to find affection like that. Ever.

"Morning," Sam's voice drifts over as he takes a seat in the booth next to Tony, squishing him and Rhodey into the wall of the diner.

Steve blinks, but then he himself needs to slide over while other people sit next to him.

"These are Natasha and Clint," Sam says. "Clint's an old army buddy and Nat's his friend."

A flash of orange travels through the edge of Steve's view as she nods at everyone. Steve finally leans over and looks at them. Pretty people. She looks like a celebrity, perfect and porcelain. He has sculpted arms that peak out from the too short sleeves of his t-shirt as he leafs through the menu. Steve sighs and says his hello when Sam introduces him.

"So what's good here?" Clint asks. "Oh hey three types of coffee, I want one of each."

"And some actual food," Natasha adds.

The conversation unwinds with small talk as they all eat. Next to Steve, the two are familiar with each other in ways that squeeze unpleasantly at Steve's heart.

He misses this. Having his hand held and his cheek kissed.

He doesn't miss being in love anymore, because it feels like--but is he really? Can he really say he loves Bucky only based on the loops and swirls of his handwriting? Or is Steve just busy feeling sorry for himself because his crush didn't come to fruition?

He's too absorbed by his running thoughts to notice another arrival until he hears--

"Nobody calls me James anymore. It's Bucky."

He's... he's fucking gorgeous, and smiling, and Steve can't excuse himself fast enough, to run and hide in his apartment. He turns his phone off, too, grateful he doesn't have any clients right now, before curling up in his bed and trying to forget about Bucky and the postcards and that fucking smile.

~

What are the chances, Steve wonders as he shivers under the blanket, that the Bucky from the postcards is the same one as this morning. And what are the chances that Sam already knows him and his friends. But Bucky is not a common name. Steve's pretty sure it's the same person and he won't be able to forget about him too soon, not when he's bound to keep meeting Bucky.

Maybe he should stop hanging with the guys. Steve's stomach lurches of the thought. He doesn't want to lose his friends. Fuck. He'll take it, the broken heart, for them. Fuck.

A knock at his door makes him peek out from under the covers. The clock on the nightstand claims it's half past eight in the evening. Steve buries his face deeper into the pillow. Whoever it is, they'll go away. Tony knows to leave him alone when he goes off the grid.

But no. It's persistent. And insistent.

In the hallway someone yells to cut it off with the knocking. With a sigh, Steve drags himself out of the bed. Won't do to cause a ruckus, not when his neighbors bear no fault. He swings the door open with a little too much force and it almost hits him in the face, but fingers grab the wood just in time.

"Hey."

Bucky. The one from this morning, holding the postcard with Steve's face on it. Which confirms he's also Steve's penpal Bucky. He blinks and Bucky chews on his lip, worry creasing his forehead.

"Right, sorry to bother you this late," he says. "Just wanted to let you know I lost my phone. And your number. And I've been busy with the pub, so I couldn't come over."

Ugh. Steve's shoulders slump and he leans his forehead into the door frame. Why didn't he think of that instead of jumping to conclusions like an ass...

"I mean, this morning Sam said we should come over and it was next to your place and I was gonna come by anyway, but you ran off and I didn't know it was you until I got this card--"

Bucky stops suddenly and when Steve looks up, he's pinching the bridge of his nose with a muttered "get it together, Barnes."

He's endearing, dark locks of hair falling messily over his face in a way that makes Steve want to run his hands through it. His shoulders are broad and he's tall, looking strong. Steve wonders how those arms would feel around him--oh. A prosthetic on his left. He hasn't noticed it before. Now it explains some of the jokes BB made in the cards about helping hands and detachable limbs. Much like Steve did about his wheezing and being breathless in New York's traffic.

So Bucky came to him even after he saw Steve.

"I never found the hidden spot," he says and Bucky's eyes snap at him.

The corners of his mouth lift slowly as he processes Steve's words. His smirk is every bit of smug Steve's imagined.

"It's a secret," he says.

"Think you can tell me where it is?"

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Depends," he says. "You willing to pay the price?"

"And what's that?"

"Go out with me," Bucky says. It sounds more like a question, though, and Steve gets this sort of insecurity. Oh how he gets it.

"Yes," he says with his next heartbeat. But then his hand moves of its own accord, grips at the front of Bucky's jacket and pulls him over, close enough for their lips to touch.

And touch, and slide, and touch some more.

When Bucky leaves, half an hour later, they're both grinning like idiots and Steve's never been so happy about making out on the doorstep in his pajamas. The cold feet he gets for the rest of the night are worth it.

~

Their first date is two weeks later, at the microbrewery that's not exactly ready to open, but well on its way. Steve's working on it, double time.

~

"Happy holidays," Bucky says as Steve opens his eyes against the morning light.

"You know it's my birthday," he mumbles.

"Of course," Bucky tells him with a kiss to his nose. His too big nose that has permanent ridges from the glasses.

There are moments Steve can't believe how Bucky likes him just as he is. Yeah, he rides Steve's ass to take care of himself, but not once has he commented on--rides Steve's ass. He giggles at the memory of last night.

"Well if you're gonna laugh at me, I'm not gonna tell you where that secret place is," Bucky mutters.

Steve rolls on top of Bucky in a blink, hands clutching at his shoulders. "It's been a year," he whines. "Just tell me already."

Bucky laughs lightly, his arm coming around Steve to pull him close. He pecks at Steve's temple. "On the fire escape there's a loose brick under the window, third row down. Second from the left."

Well, never be said that Steve can't move fast because he's off the bed and sliding out the brick in no time. He finds a piece of paper in a plastic bag stuck inside the wall. It's a note, written in clumsier letters than usual, but Steve can recognize Bucky's style anywhere by now.

> _Dear whoever finds this,_
> 
> _My dad died last year and mom found a better job in Chicago. I don't wanna go but we have to, so she can take care of me and sis. I hope someday I'll come back. So please take care of my place while I'm gone._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Bucky_

Steve shivers. He's moved here several years after the date on the letter, so there must have been other tenants in the apartment, but it feels like this letter is his. Like it was written for him.

He looks up to see Bucky leaning against the window sill in the bedroom, a small smile on his face, the one that turns Steve's insides to mush.

"Welcome home," he says.

Bucky grins and sniffles and then claims he has something in his eye. But that's fine because Steve joins him and asks him to move in.

~

The sun shines over the city, a low strip making its way into the kitchen above the broken radiator. It travels over the table to where Bucky sits, his smile brighter than the light falling on it.

Home, indeed.

~End~


End file.
